


Favour

by OwlEspresso



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Foreplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 10:56:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21445093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlEspresso/pseuds/OwlEspresso
Summary: Emet-Selch has seen how hard you work, how diligently you wear yourself down for people who can never repay your kindness. Thus, he decides to take pity on you, and grant you the smallest of favours.Aren't you lucky.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Reader, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 2
Kudos: 163





	Favour

**Author's Note:**

> [hjönk hjönk](https://owlespresso.tumblr.com/)

You draw your knees into your chest and don’t appreciate the coarseness of the bark at your back. Cicada chirps kick up again in the distance, thrown onto the forests already loud chorus. 

Only the shade and the scantness of your clothes protects you from the merciless heat, and even now, you’re sweating. It only figures that he’d call on you during one of the region’s worst heat waves. You have half a mind to ditch and swim in the nearby river. The sound of rushing water beckons like a siren’s sweet call.

“I half expected you not to show up,” Emet Selch’s languid drawl is all too familiar to you. He steps from the treeline and into the light, still clad in those thick, gaudy robes. How is he not dying from the heat? You’d be tempted to ask, but there are more pressing matters at hand, “What a good little hero, accepting a summons from the likes of me. Truly, your charitable nature is as generous as it is utterly foolish.”

You roll your eyes and sigh, bracing a hand against the tree trunk to stand to your full height. He towers over you regardless.

“Did you ask me to meet you here just so you could call me names?” you struggle to keep your voice flat, irritation already slipping through the cracks.

“Perish the thought!” he dismisses the prospect with a filipant wave of his hand, continuing his approach until he’s stood in front of you, the tree trunk still pressed against your back. A sense of uneasiness makes your skin crawl. He casts a shadow over you, the gleaming golds of his eyes seem to flash like dragon’s breath, framed by low eyelids, “I’m simply here to offer you… a favor,” he’s so close that his voice seems to touch every inch of your exposed skin.

“Alright, what kind of favor?” you squint suspiciously. Any “favor” he granted would wind up biting you in the ass. People like him didn’t hand out charity for the sake of it.

More than anything, you want to get out of his shadow, put some space between you. His aether presses tight to your own, relentless and oppressive. You take a broad step to the side, but a gloved hand wraps around your wrist, tugging you to him. You curse and stumble forward, landing face-first in his chest.

An arm wraps around your waist to both pull you closer and steady you. His body heat combined with the preexisting humidity makes you torid from the inside out, something tingly and unfamiliar settling in between your legs. Your hands reach for his sleeves, attempting to shove him away.

“What the hell!?” you seethe, lips curled back in the beginnings of a snarl.

“Hush, now. You fell and I was simply catching you,” The hand on your back doesn’t let go, and instead slid down, fingers splayed against the small of your back. Your pulse spikes, breath hitching because oh gods, his face is so very, very close.

It’s no secret that Emet-Selch as an incredibly, agonizingly handsome individual. Even with that awful, smug expression he usually dons. He gazes down at the people around him as though they are the mud beneath his sleek, black boots.

But he’s not looking at you like that.

The smile is wiped off his face, lips in a lax, straight line. His eyes are aglow with something new, something you’ve never seen on his face before. Awe, you recognize. Only awe. His nose is not even an inch from your own, and up close, you can admire the plush of his lips.

“You’ve felt it too, haven’t you?” his voice, a low maunder, sends a shiver down your spine, “A connection, something tethering us together?” one of his gloves reached up to cup your cheek, lips curling into the faintest of smiles, “Oh, poor hero. Yanked around by those who claim to care about you like a dog on a leash.”

“I’m not being yanked around,” you protest, voice much breathier than you would have liked it, “I want to help.”

“Do you? Or have you not known anything besides being the flawless savior they tout you as?” anger boils deep inside you at the pure gall of his suggestion, and you yanked backwards, away from his hand.

“You’re wrong,” you hiss and narrow your eyes at him, “And you know nothing about me! So stop assuming! I love my friends and I want to help them, and help the people who live here, too.”

“I don’t know anything about you, do I?” he echoes sardonically. His grin grows sour, but there’s no disguising the grief in it. A strange wistfulness takes root in your chest and shows on his expression. How strange, to glimpse vulnerability from someone usually so poised, someone who makes a show with his mere existence and betrays nothing beyond occasional aggravation.

It was gone as soon as it emerged.

“Your offer?” you ignore the unsubtle jab at your lack of understanding, because you’re unsure if you want to understand any of his hidden secrets or Ascian ways.

“Pleasures of the flesh,” he drawls.

Wait, what? Your utter befuddlement must show on your face because it coaxes a chuckle out of him.

“You’re pent up, hero. I can see it clear as day. All of these meaningless little errands you’ve been sent on have deprived of any time to enjoy yourself or the company of others,” he takes a broad step in your direction, eyelids lowering. A gloved hand reaches out to cup your cheek. In your astonishment, you let him, cheeks suddenly much too warm.

The iridescent golds of his eyes are near shadowed by his pupils, which have dilated, betraying an intense interest he likely wouldn’t have vocalized otherwise.

More than anything, you want to get out of his shadow, put some space between you. His aether presses tight to your own, relentless and oppressive. You take a broad step to the side, but a gloved hand wraps around your wrist, tugging you tight to his broad form. You curse as you stumble forward, landing face-first in his chest.

“Just the two of us,” he coaxes, voice low and velvety, “Just for an afternoon. No strings attached. You get to delight in my… talents, free of charge. Truly, I can’t think of a better deal” one of his knees shifts forward and you try to step back again, attempting to make sense of everything he’s offering.

Your first instinct was to snarl with rage, shake with anger at his pure audacity.

But he’s right, isn’t he?

The strong pull you feel towards him, as enigmatic and frightening as it is, cannot be ignored. Even now, your soul reaches for him, aether craves to join his own.

No strings attached, right?

No, no, this is such a bad idea!

It is. It is. But you can’t help how much you want him, how you long to wrap your arms tight around him and clutched him tighter. Your mouth feels dry. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips.

Wordlessly, instinctually, you nod.

“Good, good,” he purrs, and you hate how good the praise feels. His hands rise to press against your shoulders, pushing you backwards. You shout as the greenery of the forest passes by in a blur, brace for the impact of the ground against your back.

It never comes.

Rather, you hurtle through the air, the wind whooshing by as you fall and fall and fall down a tunnel of blurring colors and scenes, hands blindly grasping for any purchase.

“Emet Selch!” you snarl. Had this all been some elaborate ruse meant to trap you!? Your hands curl into fists, anger mixing with the cold sting of betrayal.

And then you’re in a bedroom, the chaotic blend of colors popping out of existence.

The room is dimly-lit and lavish, the mattress plush against your back. Your hands braced against the red comforter to push yourself into an upright position.

“Mine apologies,” Emet-Selch drawls. He melts from the shadows, eyelids lowered and lips curled in a sultry smile. His thick robes have been discarded, leaving him in a simple dress shirt and black slacks that compliment his sleek form, “I thought it best to relocate, unless you fancy a lay in the dirt?”

“Just warn me next time,” you give him a distasteful glout.

“Duly noted,” the mattress dips under his weight as he climbs towards you, a predator stalking among tall grass, the expanse of your skin a palpable buffet, “Now you’re certain you want this, yes? I don’t want any of your little friends coming for my head—”

“I’m sure!” you cut him off before he can insult about the Scions. As agonizingly handsome as he is, you can only stand to hear him badmouth your friends for so long before getting tired of it.

“Good, he says, voice lowered to a lascivious purr. His face is mere inches away from your own and your heart beats in your throat, fingers fisting into the plush comforter. 

Then his lips are on yours.

It’s a gentler kiss than you’d expected from him, slow, as though he’s taking the time to savor it (savor you). Just the idea of being cherished by him is somehow enough to make your cheeks feel warm.

Warmth you smother y pressing tight to him, roughening the osculation. Your hands grab his shoulders and you nip his lower lip, attempting to grasp some semblance of dominance. The only acknowledgement you get is a chuckle. How dare he!? Your frustration rises from a faint ebb to a full wave, just in time for him to plant his hands on your chest and shove you back.

“Eager little thing, aren’t you?” he teases, but his voice betrays his breathlessness, “Let’s see what we can do about sating that hunger of yours.”

His fingers press together and snap.

A sudden chill ran over you as you realize, with surprisingly placidity, that you are naked.

“Ah, there you are,” his voice is the fondest you’ve ever heard it. His bare hand smooths over your stomach to rest on your hip, “So delectably soft under all that armor. It’s a shame—”

You kiss him again, if only to shut him up. Your arms wrap around his broad shoulders to pull him closer. The muffled noise of surprise he makes is well worth it. Your tongue draws over his lips in an attempt to coax them open, tilting your head for a deeper angle, shutting your eyes.

An involuntary sigh of relief leaves you as he finally opens his lips.

His uncharacteristic pliance ends with the slow push of his tongue into your mouth. Your fingers curl into his dark tresses and tug. His knee presses ever-so-slightly to your moistening cunt, making you gasp and whine. Delighted little sounds which he greedily swallows down.

Your hips jolt upwards, eagerly grinding into the firmness of his thigh.

He plays your body. Your curves arch and roll depending on where he puts his fingers; your neck lolls to the side when his lips part from your own to journey there. He emblazons your skin with his ceaseless touches and you quickly forget yourself, content to nestle in his low burning hearth.

His teeth catch on your right shoulder. The hand not holding himself up greedily palms your breast, calloused skin teasing your nipple. The bud perks near instantly under his diligent attention and then—oh, he pulls on it, prompting a delighted cry from your kiss-bruised lips. He releases it, fingers curling your areola, mere millimeters from where you really want it.

“Emet!” you whine, arching your back.

“My sincerest apologies,” he says in a way that lets you know he doesn’t mean it. You scowl, grasping for coherency so you can properly ream him out—

Your efforts are made fruitless when he pinches with unrelenting vigor and bites hard at the crook of your neck. There’s going to be a mark there later, you realize at the back of your mind. He stokes the pyre between your legs, and already something hot and wet has gathered there, dripping from your untouched folds and onto the fine bedding.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” he teases, pulling your nipple ever so slightly and releasing it, watching your breast roll back into proper place with intrigue.

He paints over your skin with his lips and grips at the softness of your body. His eyes half-lidded in an expression almost too tender to suit him. He evokes your whines and moans, delights as you writhe. 

Desperate for something to cling to, you grip his shoulders tight. The scrape of your nails against his skin makes him hiss through gritted teeth.

And it’s satisfying to finally provoke a reaction from him.

He journeys down your body, sucking a mark to the underside of your breast, tongue tenderly lavishing over the blooming mark, fingertips dragging lightly over your side.

“Emet,” you breathe, watching him settle in between your legs. Your breath hitches, eyes widen as his gaze settles on your slick cunt with rapt attention. New warmth blossoms across your cheeks because oh gods, how did you even get here?

“Beautiful,” he praises. A single finger presses against your folds and slides up, coaxing a shiver.

…

And you’re plummeting again. The bedroom falls away and you scream, hands reaching up in vain. The air blasts by you, over your bare skin, disorienting you even as you “land” for a second time, blinking rapidly as you parse your new surroundings. It’s similarly lavish to the bedroom, all reds and silks with lamps nestled against the wall. The lighting is just as dim, and that’s all you get to see before he pops back into existence, blocking your view of the chamber.

There’s only him, you, and the plush chair you’ve been settled on.

“What part of ‘warn me next time’ didn’t you get?” you smack his shoulder, and he has the gall to roll his eyes, entirely unruffled and unremorseful. 

“My apologies,” he drawls, entirely hollow. You contemplate smacking him again, but the urge vanishes as he kneels between your legs.

Frustratingly, you want him to like what he sees.

His hands grip the backs of your thighs with surprising strength as his tongue licks a broad stripe up your slit. You sigh and lean your head against the cushioned back of the chair, thighs trembling as he repeats the motion. He pays thorough attention to every inch and piece, clouding your thoughts and stealing your coherency.

Every little flick and swirl of the swet muscle is low and explorative, causing the steady buzz between your thighs to rise into something more desperate and frustrated. 

Your hand instinctively reaches down to again grasp those dark locks, but your wrist is grabbed by something cold and firm, and decidedly not belonging to him.

A thick, black tendril clutches your arm to the chair. The sight of the alien limb makes you gasp, panic surging as a second secures your other arm. Your minute thrashing causes him to grumble and part from you, his lips glistening with your arousal.

“Hush, hero,” he soothes, smoothing a hand up your thigh, “They won’t hurt you,” and strangely enough, you believe him.

What even are they? You desperately want to ask, but his mouth is on you again and you shelve the question for much later. 

He slides a single digit inside of you, thumb against your clit and you decide to save the question for much, much later. He pulls whine after whine from you, nearly blinding you with each diligent stroke. 

There’s a second finger, a third (they’re already slick. With lube? How? You didn’t see or hear him apply any) and you’re biting your lip, the sensations compound. They undle together with the tight heat that ensnares your lower belly. Your eyes shut tight, head slamming against the back of the chair.

Your orgasm hits you before you can even process it, cunt clenching and spasming around his fingers. Your surroundings go near white, sight and sound fizzling into the background as the pleasure near drowns you. You breathe heavily as you regain your bearings, thighs trembling with the aftershocks, but he doesn’t relinquish his grip on them.

Oh, wait—

Cold tendrils, identical to the ones snaring your arms, slide up the backs of your thighs and curl around your knees, holding them open.

“Absolutely stunning,” Emet purrs, leaning over you. His forehead rests against your own. Up close, you can see the molten gold which hugs his pupils tight. His hands run you your sides to cup your breasts, giving a light squeeze. The head of his cock kisses against your folds. Your breath hitches, already oversensitive.

Somehow, he makes you want it anyway. Your hips nudge forward to try and press closer, urge him inside.

He chuckles, the noise dark and smoky.

And then he slides inside. Your cunt squeezes tight to his cock, breath stolen, pleasure thick and warm. You writhe helplessly against the chair, a listless mess of sensations. 

“Oh, sweet hero,” a calloused hand teases your breast, thumb swabbing over your nipple. The other cups your cheek, “They don’t know how lucky they are to have you.”

His words fall on deaf ears as he bottoms out, pressing a kiss to your temple. It’s a gesture much too kind for this relationship, this “no strings attached” coupling.

“They should be serving you on their hands and knees,” he continues, sliding his hips back and snapping them forward, beginning a steady pace that has you gasping for breath, “Worshipping the ground you walk on,” a hand at your side moves back down to tease your slit, “But no. They waste your talents, take you for granted,” he cuts himself off with a moan, breaths growing labored as he thrusts faster and harder.

Soon, his saccharine moans become a regular addition to the chorus, mingling with the sweet sounds of skin slapping against skin.

You’re hardly able to think about what he says, so helplessly overwhelmed, entrenched and entranced by him. He drowns out your thoughts with his smoky voice and velvet touch, makes you cry until your voice grows sore.

And then you cum under his soft praise and talented fingers, barely able to grasp for own ecstasy before he spills inside of you.

The carnal bliss is overwhelming. It warms you even as you gasp for breath and struggle to keep conscious, nearly content to nap. Your eyes shut, head rested against the back of the chair. He’s both delighted and exhausted you, leaving you helpless when he snaps his fingers.

There is no sensation of falling, no blurring of the room around you. Only blackness as you consciousness flickers out like a snuffled candle.

The relentless chirping of cicadas is what shakes you awake. The wood ceiling of the hut you’d taken temporary shelter fills your vision. Ah. Had it all been a dream? Your gaze flickers to the tiny windows. The darkness of late evening greets you.

Your hands braced against the hard mattress and grasp for the covers.

The marks that dot your skin and the blossoming ache between your legs tells you, very firmly, that it had not been a dream.


End file.
